My tongue is rolling, twiriling and clicking.
My lips are pressing against tongue and cheek.
My throat erupts in a sound uncertain.
Trying to conjure words of language whose dialect has been long lost.
For I am of a people who are rootless trees.
Unconnected but some how surviving. Supsended.
Her feet did not touch the ground.
She wore the latest African-American accesory.
Her swollen belly had been spilt open.
Inside it displayed a life that had not begun to live.
I was taught I should be ashamed of you. My skin. My hair. My language. My body. My Africa. My...
One foot in the past, one foot in the present. I just really want to get to know you. Teach me Sankofa, my...
I coming home to you, mama.
Some where between hips and to brown thighs lies the universe.
We are you.
We are spirittual particle.
Matter forming energy.
Energy having a human exprience in the paradigm we have chosen for ourselves.
I will not leave my legacy in the parking lot.
I will not leave my dreams in the parking lot.
I will not leave my truth in the parking lot.